Page 59 of Over & Out

“I don’t care about making other people happy, Chris.” His voice sounds thick.

I laugh. “Yes you do.”

“No. I’m going to do this movie because it’ll make you happy.”

For a moment, time seems to stand still. He’s joking. That’s it. Why else would he be saying that? “That’s no reason to do a whole movie,” I laugh.

But Hopper’s not laughing. Mine dies out too as Hopper’s eyes graze over my face. From my hair whipping around my head, to the flush rising in my cheeks, to my slightly parted lips.

“I can’t think of any better reason,” Hopper says, his voice hoarse.

My stomach flutters. But he can’t—“No,” I say firmly. “You can’t justdecideto do something like that. You can’t conform your career to some snap decision because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

Now it’s Hopper’s turn to look angry. “Are you forgetting number five?”

“What?”

“Rule number five. ‘Never bullshit you.’ If I tell you I want to do a movie for you, I’m going to do a movie for you. You’re worth a movie, Chris. Fuck, you’re worth a career. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“I don’t,” I say, louder than necessary. I can hardly breathe. I don’t want to let myself believe what I think he’s trying to say.

“I’m saying I—” Hopper snaps his jaw shut, cutting himself off. “Fuck,” he mutters. He laces his hands behind his head. Then he stands up. I think he’s going to walk away. Because that’s what people dowhen things get hard, they walk away. That’s what they do when their temporary teenager skips school. Steals a dirt bike. Gets in fights when someone makes fun of the strange little tough girl for reading a romance book. They pass her onto the next family. Make her someone else’s problem.

But Hopper doesn’t walk away. He reaches down to take my hand.

I could refuse. But my pulse is racing too hard, every cell on alert. He’s like Heathcliff on the moor with his tormented expression and hair whipping in the wind, and if I didn’t already know I had feelings for my boss, well, I know it now.

“I’m saying,” he says when I let him bring me to my feet, “that everything I want to do right now is to make you happy.”

“That’s because telling you what to do is my job.”

But Hopper shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean.” He takes a breath. “Chris. I fuckingleapout of bed in the morning because it’ll be another day where I get to see you. I check my phone every minute when we’re not together, just in case you texted and I missed it.” He jams his hands into his jacket pockets. “And I never fucking miss it, Chris. It doesn’t matter what it is, I’m happy to do it because you want me to. To do a movie for you? It would be a privilege, okay?” He looks skyward, his expression pained.

“What are you saying?” I ask him, not daring to guess or presume. Not doing anything now but feeling the thud of my heartbeat as I hold my breath.

“Chris,” Hopper says. “I’m crazy about you. And if you can’t tell, that just makes me want to?—”

But I don’t let him finish. I can’t, because I close the two feet of distance between us and pull his face down to mine.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. I panic, pulling away, already imagining the apology, the humiliating ride back, the conversation where he lets me down easy—or fires me.

But then Hopper makes a sound like something’s released in his chest, and a moment later, his hand is pressed against the back of my head, his other gripping my back as he crushes his mouth against mine. For a moment, it’s almost too much. Hopper’s hard body against me; the scent of him and the sea; the heat of his lips, his breath; the dart of his tongue as it searches for mine—I think I might fold in on myself. He says something I can’t hear; a single syllable, repeated between frantic kisses. Heat and need and want pour through me, emanating from some nuclear place in my lower belly.

I’m going to pass out. “Hopper,” I say, the sound coming from the back of my throat. Needing to warn him.

But just as I think it’s going to happen, my feet leave the ground, and then I’m wrapped around him, ankles knotted behind his back. Hopper presses his hand against my back and head as he drops to his knees, lowering us both back down to the grass. He hovers over me, cupping my face like he needs to make sure I’m there. He’s still saying that word, and only now do I realize it’s my name.

Chris. Chris. Chris. Fuck, Chris.

Hopper hovers over me, the moon just over his head,the ocean roaring in my ears. Or is that my blood? This man.This man.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What? What are you sorry for?”

“I’m your boss. This is—I don’t—it’s wrong. I’m wrong.”

“So why does it feel so right?”

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